Peculiar
by Ferret Coldfinger
Summary: Hello, 6... Welcome to the world.
1. August 28th

((Author's note: My first 9 fanfiction, told from the Scientist's point of view. I tried to keep it as true as possible. It's not much, but it's a start, perhaps? Let me know what you think, even if you just loath it. Possible chapters to follow...))

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August 28th

His eyes opened, not exactly simultaneously. First one, than the other optic gyred into focus. I had designed him to be different, but I had no inkling of just how different he would be until his asymmetrical eyes fixed on me. The perfectionist in me felt a small stab of regret that I had not been able to find matching lenses. He stared at me, wide eyed and silent, for several seconds- with such intensity that it was slightly unnerving. Then his eyes seemed to unfocus, grow distant, and if he were looking beyond me.  
When I set him down the way the sharp nibs of his fingers dug into me expressed a reluctance to leave my hand. When I withdrew it, he folded his hands up close to his chest, interlocking his fingers.  
I didn't realize how drained I was until I heard my own voice, high and weak:  
"Hello, 6... Welcome to the world."

At the sound of my voice he registered surprise, like someone waking from a dream, and looked around himself dazedly, noticing the world for the first time.  
I smiled. He is certainly... _peculiar_. I must admit, I let my long dormant toymaker whimsy run away with me when I designed him. I had been delighted when my guardian angels brought me the old pinstriped tie I used for his body and which, I now realize, is completely impractical and will offer nothing in the way of camouflage. The pen nibs, while sharp, are also fragile and will be next to impossible to replace out in the chaos of the world. And the yarn representing hair, originally 5's suggestion, serves no purpose whatsoever aside from aesthetics. Nevertheless... something about him has endeared me to this awkward little manikin.  
Up until now, they all expressed a certain amount of curiosity about the world around them, 3 and 4 particularly so. Even 5, though timid, had an irresistible need to know how things worked. But 6 just looks at things in passive wonder, or looks right through them. It's as if he's viewing the world through a veil of thought, or through the window of some darkened and locked-up building.

I watched him as some object on my desk caught his interest. He got unsteadily to his feet and took his first, albeit unsuccessful step. He immediately got back up with undiminished eagerness, stumbled, and fell again, quite hard. I realized at last that the object he was so desperate to reach was my inkwell, which I had used, just minutes before, to paint the '6' on his back. In my exhaustion I had been a little careless and a long black streak shone on the side of the bottle and welled up in a drop at the bottom.

"That's ink," I said, nearly laughing at the expression of awe on his face as I set it down it in front of him.  
"I-ink..." he repeated softly in a high, thin voice, peering inside.  
After a few moments of silent contemplation, he reached into the liquid abyss and drew out four shining black fingers. His eyes grew wide as he stared at his hand, and a faint smile flickered across his face.  
"Just a moment," I muttered. After a short fruitless search, I was compelled to tear a blank sheet of paper from my journal. "Here." I said, placing it in front of him. He made a soft sound of wonder and cognition.  
There were a few moments of hesitation, gazing from, the blank white emptiness of the page to the tear of liquid void trembling on the tip of his index pen nib. Then, with a sweeping, graceful motion, he drew a scratchy, splattered circle.  
Every part of him seemed to relax, his shutters unfocused and he slowly dropped to his knees, drawing line after line, shape after shape, as naturally as if he'd been doing it since the beginning of time...

He's there even as I write this: I can hear him scratching away. He even seems to be humming some soft, eerie tune to himself. It seems so familiar and yet I cannot place it.  
Part of me is glad that he appears content to be on his own. 5 was so dependent on my guidance. 6's ability to retreat into his mind may be a blessing, perhaps help him deal with the horrors of the world I have brought him into. But another part of me worries that his detachment will make him all the more fragile, that his drawing will become the only connection he has to the world...

In any case, he certainly is determined. I doubt he'll stop until there's not an inch left to draw on. I, on the other hand, have filled my pages for today. It's much later than I realized. I feel so hollow, so empty. I must start designs for 7, but I feel like my ideas have been drained also. Tomorrow. Perhaps inspiration will come in my dreams, if I can still dream...

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((... to be continued?))


	2. Disaster

((I own nothing, nothing, nothing…))

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Disaster.

It seemed like just minutes after I finally managed to fall asleep when I was awakened by a dull metallic _thud_. Strange that so soft a sound should wake me when I've grown so numb to the explosions of bomb shells, the screams as shrapnel tears into human flesh, the sound of my great mistake taking yet another innocent life. And yet, my eyes snapped open as if someone had slapped me.

It took me a minute to find my glasses and carefully lit a candle- my protectors have warned me against drawing attention to my workshop, lights and electricity are to be kept to a minimum at night. The Machines aren't my only enemies. A good majority of the human race would now be happy to see my head on a pike and, if my mission weren't for them far more than for myself, I would gladly give it to them. But this way I can offer them something more than useless revenge. I can offer them hope, even if it is a hope for a future they will never see.

My first thought was 6 and I immediately checked my desk for the little hunched-up form I had left still happily drawing as I fell asleep. It was a mess: somehow 6 must have managed to overturn the inkwell; ink had been spread all over in tiny black footprints and little drawings were scratched directly into the wood here and there. 6 himself was no where in sight.

An inexplicable bubble of panic rose in me. The actual idea of loosing one of them suddenly seemed unbearable- I suppose it's similar to the fear a mother experiences for her children. I looked around desperately for some sign of where he had gone and noticed the page I had given him, covered corner to corner in inscrutable scribbles, laying a few inches from my foot. Moving to retrieve it, I saw more ink beside it, smeared and scuffed as if in a struggle. Going cold, I saw that the trail lead under the desk.

Bracing myself for I don't know what kind of horror, I crouched down so that the light from my candle filled the compartment. At first, I saw nothing. Then, with a wave of relief, I spotted the small striped figure curled up in the darkest corner.

But there was something wrong.

As I reached toward him, I saw his optics widen with fear and he scrambled awkwardly to his feet and tried to wedge himself even further into the corner. Though he stared straight at me, I could tell that it wasn't me he was seeing. I can only imagine the nightmare he must have been experiencing that would cause such an expression of helpless terror.

"6… 6, it's alright. It's okay, it's only me… it's your… your Father…" I don't know what induced me to say it. I wondered about it afterward.

He shook his head frantically, the yarn on top of his head flopping around almost comically. "N-no… no…r-red… red eye…"

I moved closer, trying to ease my hand toward him in the least threatening way possible. He didn't move, or couldn't, paralyzed by his vision. Taking advantage of his stillness, I grabbed hold of him.

The moment my fingers wrapped around him, he gasped and cried out softly, breathless with pain. My heart sank into my stomach. I could feel it through the cloth. A loose piece.

I realized instantly that what had wakened me was the sound of his tiny metal frame impacting the ground, having fallen or perhaps, the horrible thought came unbidden, jumped from the edge of the desk.

I understood what I was going to have to do.

Without wasting any time, I moved him as gently I could to the table where I had given him life. I had to be calm. I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly while trying to slow my racing pulse, and picked up the scissors…

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((Ooo, a cliffhanger… Oh, how I love little 6 in pain. More to come.))


	3. Invasive Surgery

((I apologize in advance for the choppy sentences and apparent schizophrenia of this (as well as the previous) chapters. I was and am very hungry, cold, and full of caffeine. I am not a healthy sort of person. By the way, I have no idea what the Adaptor Plug is for. My guess is it's something like a heart.))

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6 whimpered softly as I eased the scissor-blade under two or three of his stitches.

I hesitated.

It was one thing putting him together when he just a lifeless toy, but now…

I knew it was going to hurt. I remembered my astonishment when I discovered that they could feel pain. It was when 3 and 4 were investigating the candle flame late at night; 3 had reached into the tongue of rippling colour and, after a moment, leapt back sharply into his brother's arms with a rapid flickering of pain. I had not anticipated this. I built them with optic lenses, audio sensing apparatus. The sense of touch, however, must have come with the soul.

I knew it was going to hurt him more than I could imagine, as much as the tiny doll body could possibly hurt.

It had to be done. Every moment I wasted was another moment of suffering for 6.

I tried to cut the stitches as quickly and steadily as I could. The moment he realized what I was doing, the little manikin began struggling wildly in my grip, digging his fingers deep into hand and tearing free the loosened thread all the way under his arm and across his striped back. The cloth gaped horribly and his metal frame gleamed at me as it caught the candlelight.

"6… 6, you've got to hold still…" I murmured, knowing it wouldn't help. One more snip and I'd be able to see the extent of the damage.

It was worse than I expected.

Not only had two of the metal ribs on his left side been bent out of shape but the frame holding the Adaptor plug had twisted and broken loose. The plug hung perilously in his hollow abdomen by a single wire.

I found myself wishing that I still had 2 to assist me. Having a surgeon to scale with the patient would have been superior to my unsteady, overlarge hands. First, the ribs had to be bent back into place so I could get to the broken plug frame. The task would have been impossible if 6 had continued to wriggle in my hand, but, thankfully, the combined agony and fear proved too much for him. His mismatched eyes shuttered in and out of focus for a few moments before he slid into unconsciousness with something like a sigh.

This was my chance: I had to work quickly.

Switching my scissors for a pair of needle-nosed pliers, I managed to pry the crushed ribs open and bend them roughly back into their original shape. Repairing the Adaptor frame was more difficult. I actually resorted to removing most of the broken frame and fixing the plug in place with some wire, wrapping around it as securely as I could. It's far from ideal, but it will hold. I'll have to strengthen the design for the remaining three to prevent the repetition of this horrific occurrence.

Internal damage dealt with, I laid the limp form carefully down on the table and went to my desk for a needle and thread to close him up. In my haste, I nearly stepped on his drawing, still lying on the floor. As I stopped to pick it up, I froze, the paper trembling in my hand. Those symbols… they were unmistakable but- how could he possibly know? I stood marveling for a full minute, struck by this bizarre coincidence, before finally turning to search the desk for my sewing supplies.

Returning to my table, I was horrified to see that 6 had once again disappeared. Realizing that he must have regained consciousness, I knew that he couldn't have gone far in the state he was in and I desperately scanned the table for telltale smudges of ink or a glimpse of grey pinstripes. My heart beat against my ribs like a bird fighting for freedom and the thought flashed across my mind: was it my fear I was feeling, or was it his? _Could he be feeling my anxiety? Was I experiencing his pain? _I wondered to what extent this piece of my soul had actually been separated from the whole, if there wasn't some thread still connecting us…

Then, I heard it: a gentle scraping sound coming from behind the radio. A glimmer of light reflected from mismatched optics as they disappeared from view.

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((Another chapter gone and we're still in the same day. Jesus. I promise I'll try to wrap this crazy thing up.

And, yes, I am a sadist. If it's any consolation, it was very, very difficult to write.

Next Chapter: MORE PAIN. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA.))


End file.
